often--bracketed in a breath Roman Catholics and unfortunate women
of the street, and alluded to them jointly as--poor creatures.

To be able to say this, and feel that one is daring convention by
one's breadth of mind, is no uncommon standard of Christian
intelligence.

But all this dutiful attention to Lady Bray availed the Rev. Samuel
nothing. On the anvil of circumstances he was broken, as in the smithy
the red-hot metal is bent and severed as though it were but clay.

After ten years' faithful, if somewhat incompetent service, in the
parish of Cailsham, the Rev. Samuel Bishop was requested to accept
the chaplaincy at some distant Union. It was in this manner that his
downfall came about.

CHAPTER IV

It was Easter Sunday. The vicar of the little parish of Steynton,
just outside Maidstone, was away for his holidays, and the Rev.
Samuel Bishop had taken his place as _locum tenens_.

In the small church where the parishioners met every Sunday, it had
been the custom for some time past for an earnest and well-known
member of the congregation, who had an appreciation for the sound
of his own voice, to read the lessons at Matins and at Evensong. This
duty, combined with that of warden, was fulfilled by Mr. Windle, an
ardent church-goer, a staunch, if somewhat narrow-visioned
Christian, and a man rigid in his adherence to the cause of total
abstinence.

Before morning service on this Easter Sunday, he met the Rev. Samuel
Bishop in the vestry. The organist had already gone to his seat behind
the chancel. The first preliminary notes of the voluntary--weak and
uncertain, because the organ-blower had come late and as yet there
was not sufficient wind in the bellows--were beginning to sound
through the building. The two men were alone.

"I should like to know," Sally's father was saying, in his quiet,
apologetic voice, "how many people you generally expect to
communicate on Easter Sunday. The wine, you know. I want to know how
much wine to pour out."

His face twitched as he waited for the answer. It seemed as if some
unseen fingers were alternately pinching the flabby flesh of his
cheeks, then as swiftly letting it go.

Mr. Windle made a mental calculation, delivering his estimation of
the number with a voice confident of his accuracy.

"Sixty," he said. "Not less--possibly more."

"That will take a lot of wine."

"There's plenty in that cupboard," said Mr. Windle.

The gentle rector reverently open